


Aziraphale; or, the Modest Prometheus

by grumblebee



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 years of memories, Destruction, Emotional Turmoil, Fire, M/M, Mutual Pining, Soft feelings, different historical eras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22371247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumblebee/pseuds/grumblebee
Summary: Left alone in the bookshop for the day, Aziraphale tries to forget his tricky relationship with fire--but his books and memories won't let him.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 60
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	Aziraphale; or, the Modest Prometheus

**Author's Note:**

> The art for this fic was created by TayaSigerson, and can be found here:  
> [Banner](https://i.imgur.com/4BloxZa.png)  
> [Victoria Sponge](https://i.imgur.com/kGQT3c3.png)  
> [Great Fire](https://i.imgur.com/8ZvD4tt.png)

There’s a lot to be said about fire. Its force is creative and destructive; unbeholden to the world around it, yet tethered to its existence. There was once a time Aziraphale likened it to God in the way that it inspired awe, raging at the beginning of the universe. It molded the world, shaping it into a little blue marble swirled with life. Cut to six thousand years later, that roaring fire had shrunk to glowing embers; not yet extinguished, but waiting eagerly for the fanning of the end of the world. Aziraphale preferred it that way. He preferred it in the way most people preferred indifference over consequence, with a low buzzing anxiety in his stomach that one day the other shoe would drop very, very hard. 

This feeling bubbled up on especially slow days in the bookshop. While having irregular hours benefited Aziraphale’s divine duties, it did make for a rather unpredictable pool of patrons. He rarely saw regulars, and the occasional looky-loo didn’t hang around for more than an hour. This resulted in the regular occurrence of complete and utter silence, so thick and impenetrable that Aziraphale felt crushed under the weight of it. His right hand especially. It might seem odd, but after six thousand years he could still feel the weight of his sword. That bulky, flaming thing he had been issued before being posted at the Eastern Gate. Its handle lay flat in his palm, only to disappear when Aziraphale curled his fingers to grasp it. Six thousand years a phantom. A regret. Or rather...a queasy, uncertain feeling that’s been manifesting since he parted with it. 

The only thing that quelled the panic was the pacing. Slow, methodical pacing, up and down the aisles of his cramped little shop. Some days there was a purpose to it; find a new book, or a delightful old one to pass the time. Otherdays, like today, it was to remember. Aziraphale’s pale blue eyes scanned each shelf, reading the spines of thousands of books. This aisle, _Mythology_ , did little to ease his mind. One title in particular seemed to jump out at him. 

“Prometheus”

The name stared back at him from the cracked spine of the book, gold letters shimmering like a dying flame in the light _. Prometheus_. How horribly things had ended for him. Aziraphale plucked the book from the shelf, letting it fall open in his palms. He thumbed through the tale, devouring it as though it were his own fate. Prometheus steals fire from the Gods, and gives it to man. In return he is bound, his liver pecked out by birds, feasted on for eternity. It never failed to make Aziraphale’s side stitch with empathy, phantom forces descending on the corporeal form he was issued and tearing him limb from limb. He had skirted this fate for millenia, but feared it every waking moment. Not since the light of God had graced his face, Her calculated voice ringing in his ears, did he feel this much fear. 

_“Where is the flaming sword I gave you, Aziraphale, to guard the Gate of Eden?”_

Chains. He was in chains. 

_“Sword? Right. Uh, um. Big, sharp, cutty thing.”_

His wings would scorch, the bones beating against the rock he was bound to, while those of a feather feasted on him ravenously. 

_“Uh oh, uh, must have put it down here somewhere. Forget my own head next.”_

And then silence. Horrible, horrible silence. That was the last time Aziraphale heard Her voice. All instructions thereafter were handed down by Michael or Gabriel, packaged with a beaming smile that made Aziraphale uneasy. Had he done the wrong thing that day? A bad thing? Surely compassion couldn’t be all that bad. Eve with her protruding belly, and Adam guiding her by the hand out of the garden, his other hand grasping the sword tightly. His left hand. Aziraphale would always flex his right hand and feel the weight of it being transferred, and it felt like a limb was being taken from him. Did he commit a terrible, awful deed that day?

_“Oh, you’re an angel. I don’t think you can do the wrong thing.”_

Aziraphale clapped the book shut, his cheeks burning. He had committed two trespasses that day. The first when the sword left his hand, unleashing a divine force into the new world. The second when he raised his wing, and gave a demon divine protection--well, _common courtesy._ What was he to do? Let the poor thing stand out in the rain, his long red hair weigh down under the spray of God’s first natural inclement? Not likely. 

Aziraphale slipped the book back onto the shelf, ressumming his pacing. In giving humans fire he had unleashed something upon the world he would never take back. And he had also met Crowley. Somehow, only one of those things kept him up at night. He wished the little bell would ring so that Crowley might interrupt this train of thought. Invite him to lunch...or bring it to him. Break up the silence with his endless chatter, those lovable noises that do nothing yet everything to distract his mind. Perhaps open a bottle of wine…but it didn’t matter. Crowley was off on business today. Some quick temptation over at Cambridge, with the express promise of being back by suppertime, to try that new little Vietnamese place Aziraphale had been eyeing. 

Meanwhile, the pacing continued; this time with Aziraphale rounding the aisle and meandering into a small section filled with travel journals. He let his hand traipse over the spines, fingertips brushing against accounts of new lands, rough seas, and harsh winters. About being alone, far from home, and struggling to maintain a fire. It was almost too familiar.

* * *

_Eden, 5 hours after expulsion_

Aziraphale fidgeted with the sleeves of his robe, the low hum of fear brewing in his belly. He had just barely patched up the wall to Eden when God confronted him, and the eerie silence that followed left him on edge. The sun was dipping low, the chill of the desert surrounding paradise creeping in. It would be dark soon, and all of God’s wayward creatures would be afoot. To say Aziraphale felt responsible was an understatement. He _was_ on apple tree duty. Well—wall duty. Well—-both? That didn’t seem to make much sense...all those angels and he gets the double shift...

_“Makes you wonder what God’s really planning.”_

Aziraphale shook his head as if to knock the voice loose. That demon— _Crawley_ or whatnot—was just trying to rattle him. Eden was a paradise, not a prison. Of course it wouldn’t be loaded with angels patrolling the perimeter, observing their every move...it was...it was….

It was understaffed is what it was. 

Aziraphale quickly squashed the thought,his own guilt and shame tamping it down. _He_ failed. He failed those poor humans and he failed God. And now night was approaching. They would be cold, and already wet from the rain. And Eve was pregnant, bless her, that would be rough. Aziraphale’s heart twisted in his chest. There was no rule saying that an angel couldn’t check up on them. Not even a little peek. For their sake, of course. 

It didn’t take long to find them. As the desert turned an inky purple, Aziraphale could make out the slight flicker of orange on the horizon. They moved quite fast, though perhaps they had expected to find a more suitable home. Not this place, surely. It was all sand and dead branches. They swirled in the wind, kicking up into great clouds that scratched the eyes and stung the lungs. It was an inhospitable wasteland, fit for not even a scorpion. Aziraphale shuddered, there probably were scorpions out here. As he neared Aziraphale could see the source of the flame, his gifted sword, as it lay in Adam’s hand. 

Aziraphale landed silently, tucking his wings behind him as he approached the makeshift camp. A pit had been dug out of the sand, and Eve stood beside it, arms full of dry dead branches. Adam held the sword aloft, it’s flickering light doing only so much to help. It was so dim that Aziraphale wondered if the sword would go out...if perhaps his gift would expire. The thought filled him with dread. 

“Here, child.” Aziraphale whispered, focusing within himself to summon a beacon of light. A soft halo surrounded the three, and Eve could clearly see what she was doing now. She laid the branches in the pit messily, crouching to rearrange them. Aziraphale could see the blisters on her palms. When the pit was ready, Adam lowered the tip of the sword, the kindling catching alight. Aziraphale’s beacon dimmed, and the orange glow of the fire returned.

“Come to take it back, have you?” A voice asked. Aziraphale jumped, whirling around to see a familiar face.

“Crawley.” He said, mouth dry. It took a moment for him to realize what the demon was asking. “I—no. No, I haven’t. It’s just cold, is all. I got worried.” His fingers fumbled together nervously. Then again...what was this demon doing here? This being who shifted from man to snake, skulking around in the night. Aziraphale cleared his throat. “And you? Are you here to...finish them off?”

“Finish them—-? No! No, no.” Crawley said, almost frantically. “No, I also thought it was rather cold and barren out here.” The two fell silent, watching as the cast out couple curled beneath the pelt of the lion they had killed. It’s meat cooked before the fire. Aziraphale’s stomach turned.

“There’s nothing out here for them.” He said solemnly. “Rainwater if they’re lucky, but little food. All of it waiting to eat them first.” Beside him Crawley hummed, his hands searching for something in his frayed black robes. Aziraphale watched as he produced a tiny pouch, tied tight with string. The demon walked into the camp and up to Adam, leaning close to whisper something in his ear. Aziraphale’s gaze lingered, following the graceful line of Crawley’s throat down to his hand, where the pouch was being dropped into Adam’s outstretched palm. When it was done, Crawley walked back, hips swaying. 

“What was all that about?”

Crawley made a noise Aziraphale had never heard before; something halfway between a huff and a mumble. “Mmmhph...parting gift, I suppose.” 

“Your bountiful wisdom before wasn’t enough?” Aziraphale asked. For a moment he thought twice about his comment, feeling a pang of realization that he was sassing a demon, alone, in this dark desert. But Crawley’s form remained loose and relaxed, not at all coiled and ready to strike in retaliation. In fact, he smiled...genuinely.

“Wasn’t mine to begin with. That’s the thing about demons, we’re whistleblowers of sorts.” Crawley turned to Aziraphale, flashing a toothy grin that made his knees buckle. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell on you.” Aziraphale quirked an eyebrow.

“God has already asked about the sword—“

“That’s not what I’m referring to.”

Aziraphale turned, his gaze landing on the pouch in Adam’s hands. Curiosity burned in him, as did the suspicion that he was an accessory to another misdeed. 

“And...hypothetically...what would I _not_ be witnessing at this send-off party?” He asked carefully. Crawley looked positively pleased with himself. 

“The gift of bounty. That pouch has a seed from every plant in Eden.” 

Aziraphale balked. Every plant? Surely Crawley had not been skulking in the garden _that_ long, slithering around each and every sprig, shoot, and vine while he stood unaware on the stone wall. But the initial sting of being made a fool of ebbed as he saw Adam undo the drawstring of the pouch, eyes lighting up with hope as he gazed upon its contents. Exile would not be easy, Aziraphale knew, but it would not be a death sentence. Wordlessly, Adam let Eve peek inside the pouch, the two sharing a moment of quiet bravery as the rest of humanity unfolded before them.

“That was very kind of you.” Aziraphale whispered. Crawley shifted uncomfortably for the first time.

“It wasn’t.” he said, not so much as an explanation than as a warning. “I’ll leave the kindness to you.” Aziraphale swallowed thickly, his mouth dry with fear.

“Understood.”

* * *

_A.Z Fell & Co Bookshop, Present Day _

Snapped back to his senses, Aziraphale withdrew his hand from the travel journals, feeling all at once exhausted by them. There was only so much treacherous ground a man could cover before his bones became weary, and Aziraphale was worn down enough. But the churning unease in his stomach continued, and so the pacing resumed. 

Turning the corner, Aziraphale caught a glimpse at the large grandfather clock tucked into the corner of the shop. It’s sleek dark wood was nearly lost in the mismatch of faded book spines and loose papers, but the face still gleamed bright and brilliant. He had to squint against the stream of light bouncing off the polished bronze, but Aziraphale could make out the time.

“Quarter past noon, hmph.” 

Still a whole day without distraction. Crowley would hardly be done with his temptations. Knowing traffic, the Bentley was probably jammed out of London. And then there was the nimble grace he went about his business. It was quite entertaining to watch, but so very time consuming. Would he even make it back in time for dinner? If he did it would be rather late...and he was already peckish. Perhaps a small bite now would distract him from his nerves. With a small sigh, Aziraphale turned into another aisle lined with cookbooks. Some were fairly new, but others not so much. Aziraphale had learned the importance of grabbing a recipe while it was still in recent memory, having lost too many dishes to the passage of time. _Damn man before he had the common sense to scrawl out a beloved recipe_ , Aziraphale thought. 

His fingers danced over the row of books, teasing the idea of each collection. Something light, something quick? There was a lovely Victorian book here. Or another from the sixties? Pleasant as they sounded, Aziraphale could not ignore the way his stomach jumped and twisted as he toyed with the spines, pulling him out of the moment. He could just make a pot of tea. There was a small kitchenette miracled into the back of the shop. Just pop back, twist the knob, and let the little flame spark to life. The idea of it danced in Aziraphale’s eyes, and once more his mind wandered far from the present. 

* * *

_Soho, London, 1968_

“Angel?” There was flour covering nearly every surface, some clumped into sticky wads where it had spilled from the mixing bowl. The air was thick and hot, despite it being the depths of December--all thanks to a little oven that would not quit. “Angel, what’s all this about?” Aziraphale looked up from his work--whatever that was-- to greet his visitor. 

“Victoria sponge, dear. I can’t seem to get it right.” 

Crowley’s face twisted in frustration, throwing off the stylish scarf that was wrapped around his neck and shoulders. “This _again_? Aziraphale, it’s been a hundred years. There’s only so much you can do.” Aziraphale dropped his gaze back to the counter, eyes skittering across the many, many handwritten versions of the Victoria sponge cake he’s tried. Some were crossed out, others given little notes like “not light enough” or “too wet”. 

“I’m close. I can tell.”

“Close to being shut in the nuthouse, more like. I’m certain your side wouldn’t approve of you frittering away with eggs and sugar while I’m prowling around in the night.” Crowley muttered. He flopped down onto the beaten up old couch Aziraphale owned, draping his long legs over it as though it were his very own throne. Aziraphale glanced up, attributing the heat on his cheeks to the blazing oven, and not the fact that Crowley looked delightfully jolly. All black attire, yes, but cheeks and nose nipped with cold. It suited him wonderfully. Almost too well for Aziraphale’s liking--

“It’s the principle of it, Crowley. It was such a lovely balance--”

“Angel.”

“--It would be a shame for the world to lose it--”

“ _Angel_ ”

“--How can I stop until I’m certain I’ve found it?”

“Aziraphale! _Oven!_ ” 

Crowley had leapt to his feet, shimmying past Aziraphale in the narrow kitchen to tend to the oven, which had begun smoking like a chimney. He grabbed an oven mitt--not so much for the sake of heat than for protection against the mess that bubbled over the side of the baking tin. Aziraphale cried out, coughing as the oven spewed black smoke into the tiny kitchen. The whole place stank of burnt vanilla, and it burned something fierce. 

“Windows, Aziraphale!”

“ _Good lord_ ” 

Aziraphale threw the windows open, letting the cold December air rush into the flat. As the air cleared, Aziraphale’s sight returned, albeit a little teary. Meanwhile, Crowley pulled the ruined cake out of the oven, plopping it onto a cooling rack with a bang. It was a disastrous, ugly looking thing. The tin was ruined, burnt by the oven and covered in scorched batter. He could miracle the tin clean, of course, but the shame of looking at it made Aziraphale want to futilely clean it by hand. The cake itself was worse. What should have been a light, airy sponge looked more like a hot pumice stone. A truly awful thing to behold. Crowley coughed and fanned the last of the smoke away with his mitt. 

“Don’t remember this at afternoon tea” Crowley mused. He poked the cake, it’s hard blackened crust splitting and spilling a trickle of uncooked batter. “But a little jam ought to clean it right up.” Crowley looked up at Aziraphale, grin falling as he read the angel’s expression. Aziraphale could feel the tears clumping his lashes, his traitorous eyes reacting to the smoke and making him appear soft. Crowley’s voice dropped low. “I’m sorry, I’ve offended you.” 

“I’m not upset, Crowley, it’s...it’s just the smoke.” Aziraphale busied himself with the counter, clearing the papers and brushing the flour into piles that vanished with a flick of his palm. “But you’re right. A little jam will fix it right up.” Crowley sighed, jamming his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers. Aziraphale didn’t have to look up to know what face he was pulling; that expressive pout that coaxed Aziraphale to share more. To allow Crowley to push more. He wouldn’t give in. He didn’t in the car, and he wouldn’t here. 

“ _Aziraphale…_.” 

It was almost a plea. _Almost._ Aziraphale felt his heart crumple in his chest. Heaven above, the whole thing was so silly. So stupid. But Crowley maintained his gaze, looking him over with utmost concern.

“Why this recipe?” Crowley asked. “Tell me what made it taste so appealing.” Aziraphale kept his gaze to the counter, his thumb intently scratching a dried glob of batter free. 

“I remember the luncheon. The get together that I happened to be invited to as afternoon tea became so fashionable. I sat out in the garden, had a lovely chat. And at the end after the sandwiches were gone they brought out this delectable sponge cake and it was so light and carefree…”

It sounded a bit odd once he said it out loud. Nostalgia was one thing, he and Crowley had many fond memories they wished to relive. But this felt heavier, almost like mourning. Mourning what, exactly? Aziraphale wished Crowley wouldn’t ask. Oh, who was he kidding, _of course_ he would. Crowley clicked his tongue sympathetically.

“Angel, I think you just miss the party.” He said, his voice soft. “Was it lovely company?” Aziraphale thought back, hazily remembering the faces that sat clustered around the table. Even in the bright sunlight of the garden their faces were half shadow—as were the memory of most humans Aziraphale interacted with. He mostly remembered their kindness...how their spirit felt. He also remembered the sinking feeling at the sight of an empty chair, a clean plate before it waiting anxiously for a guest who would not arrive. Aziraphale fought back tears.

“Lovely enough” he murmured. 

Silence settled in. Aziraphale hated silence; it reminded him of judgement. He busied himself with the dough-crusted counter, hoping the persistent scratching would fill the void. Crowley, thankfully, broke first. He cleared his throat, one hand pulling at the tight fitted hem of the turtleneck sweater around his neck. 

“Cocoa, then?” he said, changing the subject delicately. “I’ll make it the way you like.” Aziraphale smiled weakly. 

“Please.”

Crowley set about preparing the cocoa, leaving Aziraphale to slump onto the couch in defeat. Perhaps he had wanted to recreate a little of that party. The sparkling conversation, the way the world seemed so bright and yet so very very tense--all of it radiating from the empty chair with the little place card marked _Crowley._ In a perfect world there’d be someone in that seat, smiling knowingly at Aziraphale as the conversation turned philosophical. They’d have cake. They’d stroll home through St. James Park. Feed the ducks. There wouldn’t be invitation after invitation piled up under the door of Crowley’s flat, where he lay sleeping not twenty feet away. He wouldn’t be sleeping at all; Aziraphale would have had the courage to wake him. _Would have, could have, should have,_ Aziraphale thought, _it all adds up to cowardice._

Meanwhile, the smell of chocolate began to fill the air. Crowley stood before the stove, carefully stirring a pot over the flickering blue flame. “A good cup will do you right.” he said, filling the sad silence Aziraphale had fallen into. “None of that instant stuff, either. But I know you always have a good bar of chocolate and cream in your icebox. I think I’ve seen you make it enough to do it right, but I’ll try not to burn it.” The flame danced in Aziraphale’s vision, soft and gentle as Crowley swirled the small saucepan above it. Nothing smelled burnt. It was all creamy and aromatic, replacing the horrid stench of ruined cake with something much more pleasant. Warmth bloomed deep in Aziraphale’s chest. 

“That ought to do it.” Crowley sighed, having wrapped up some long mumbly rant about quality chocolate while Aziraphale drifted off. He poured out the cocoa into two mugs, taking the time to add a few marshmallows and chocolate shavings. The whole thing was sweet and indulgent, the kind of guilty pleasure Aziraphale enjoyed thrice as much when in Crowley’s company. Almost all things felt indulgent in his presence. Their meetings were always so full of light and laughter, chipping away at his reservations each time. Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile as Crowley sauntered over, a steaming mug in each hand. 

Crowley handed one off to Aziraphale, the petal pink ceramic gleaming. It was warm in his hands. Warm, just a touch towards hot, like the press of flesh against his palms. As though he was cradling something fragile and precious. Like holding someone’s heart in his hands. Aziraphale raised the mug to his lips, the first sweet wave of cocoa tickling his lips. It mingled with the marshmallow, brushing against his lips as he inhaled a hot cloud of steam. Chocolate, bittersweet. And love. The whole thing was laced with love. It hit his stomach hard, blooming with a warmth that spread throughout his entire body. Aziraphale’s mind stalled and a million little moments bobbed with the marshmallows in his cup, all demanding his attention. 

“Everything alright, Aziraphale?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale looked up, his heart wrenching at the sight of Crowley. The way he leaned, the look on his face...Aziraphale could almost smell the upholstery of the Bentley. 

_You go too fast for me, Crowley_

“Did it not come out right?” 

Aziraphale snapped out of his daze and rested the mug on the armrest of the couch. He felt his breath return to him, though he wasn’t sure when it left. Above him Crowley hovered anxiously. 

“No, I-- It’s delightful, dear. Forgive me, I think I overdid it a touch today.” Aziraphale offered a sheepish smile that Crowley accepted eagerly before sliding beside him on the couch. Though Crowley would never admit it, he draped like this on purpose, just so his arm wrapped around the back of the couch and ghosted the thick cable knit of Aziraphale’s jumper. And though Aziraphale would never admit it, he always leaned back into the couch, so dangerously close to Crowley’s fingertips that static could spark.. Crowley took a sip of his cocoa. 

“S’for the best, I suppose.” he mused. “Baking is rather finicky. You can start fresh tomorrow. Take it slow.” Crowley looked into his mug, sloshing the contents around. “I’ll help if you like.” The scent of love and chocolate filled the flat, drifting out the open window like a kite on the breeze. Aziraphale closed his eyes, inhaled, and opened them again.

“Company would be lovely.”

Their mugs clinked, plans made, and out of the corner of his eye Aziraphale noticed the soft golden color of a perfect Victoria sponge cake sitting on his counter. Jam and all.

* * *

_A.Z Fell & Co Bookshop, Present Day _

The tea had not helped. In fact, Aziraphale felt abysmal. After much deliberation between a robust black and a pleasant herbal blend, he chose the black--and anxiety chose the caffeine. Sitting still was futile. In the comfort of his armchair, Aziraphale bounced his leg restlessly. No amount of movement could burn off the energy twisting itself into a tight knot in his belly. He had drained two cups while reliving the memory of that December. Fueled by nerves, Aziraphale had oversteeped the tea, leaving it dark and bitter. It sobered him up, washing phantom taste of cocoa from his tongue. It would be best if he did not dwell too much on that sweet memory. 

Days like this always turned sour. Aziraphale’s incessant pacing ensured that. Abandoning the tea cup, Aziraphale returned to the stacks, rounding a particular corner he knew would haunt him. History, specifically the History of London. In the 6000 years since God gave the world a name, Aziraphale had resided in London most of all. It started with a few visits with Roman soldiers. Then more-so as Christianity spread north. By the time the 17th century had arrived Aziraphale was ready to make London his permanent address. Theater, art, the occasional miracle, he found it quite fetching. Crowley did too, surprisingly. But it was not without its tragedies. 

_This isn’t one of Shakespeare’s gloomy ones, is it? No wonder nobody’s here._

A small smile crossed Aziraphale’s lips. _Hamlet_ , oh how that one annoyed Crowley to no end. In the end he was right; tragedy begot tragedy soon after when the Globe burned down after a performance of _Richard III_ went awry. In the grand scheme of things it should have been a blip on his radar, but Aziraphale couldn’t help but see it as a sign of bad things to come. Looking back, it was. 

Before Aziraphale sat a small collection of books filed neatly under _London_. The wood of the shelf was covered in a thick layer of dust, causing him some unease. As embarrassing as it was to have an untidy shop, Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to clear it off. Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t walked down this aisle in five years. One book in particular made his gut clench with guilt, even at a passing glance. Yet now that he was alone (and already down this dark path) he faced it straight on. 

“The Great Fire of London.” 

* * *

_London, 1666_

Not all tragedies are apparent from the beginning. Such was the case with the Great Fire...at least how Aziraphale remembered before it all went wrong. Midnight in early September--a Sunday--after a long and sweltering summer. When the fire erupted in the little bakery on Pudding Lane, London hardly flinched. But groggy citizens awoke to the sound of crackling, and the screams of the Farriner family as they scrambled out of their windows to the safety of neighboring homes. As it spread quickly up the crooked structure, local authorities likened it to a match striking and crumpling. And London, with its cramped medieval layout and dry thatched roofs, made for the perfect kindling. Shoulder to shoulder like matches in a book, Puddling Lane went up in flames, and by mid-afternoon the blaze had whipped into a frenzy. 

Aziraphale watched as local authorities attempted to construct fire breaks, frantic men taking sledge hammers to neighboring buildings. Homes buckled and collapsed as families poured into the smoky streets looking for refuge, the remnants of their lives turning to ash at their heels. The air was thick with smoke, and it burned the lungs. Aziraphale moved about the chaos with a handkerchief pressed over his nose and mouth, eyes perpetually watering as the fire quickly overtook the city. 

“Hurry children, let’s go.” a voice clipped. 

Aziraphale turned to see a wealthy woman usher her children into a carriage, hands so filled with overstuffed bags that she could hardly lift her arms. They dragged along the dirt ground, mixing fine brocade silks with ash, mud, and street muck the likes of which made Aziraphale’s stomach turn. The children were cramped into the carriage, bags on laps or in hand, fitting together with their possessions like little cogs in a clock. The door was slammed shut, horses urged forward, and off they went as though the devil himself had stepped into the road--but it was only Aziraphale, standing idle. 

More carriages followed suit, each stuffed with all the world possessions one’s hearts could desire. Silks, jewels, chests of spices, all thrown into fine carriages like rubbish along with the children and pets. They all took off in a mad dash for the city walls, eager to jump out of the pot before the fire cooked the entire city. Aziraphale scowled as their caravan raced past, remembering a similar mass exodus the year prior when the black plague ravaged the city. 

“Going with them, angel?”

Aziraphale flinched as Crowley stepped up beside him. His hands were folded neatly behind his back, tone tempered as if expecting a certain response. Firelight danced in his dark tinted glasses, giving Aziraphale the uneasy sense that behind them Crowley’s eyes had gone full blown amber. Aziraphale pressed his handkerchief closer to his face, noting that Crowley stood as though he were taking in the fresh night air.

“Absolutely not. There’s work to be done here. This wretched fire…” he trailed off, smoke tickling his lungs, causing him to cough loudly. Crowley’s brow knit together with concern. 

“Fire’s a fire. A bad one, yeah, but no reason to get yourself discorporated for.” he said. Even with his glasses on, Aziraphale could tell that Crowley was looking him over with care;no doubt seeing the singed cuffs of his sleeves, or the thick ash that has turned his cream and blue ensemble into a walking nightmare. “No one would think twice if you hopped in their carriage, Aziraphale. We waited out the plague with most of them last year, and they all found you to be lovely company.” 

The idea twisted like a knife in Aziraphale’s gut. First he gives man the element of destruction, then he waits it out like a coward? Good lord, he was a pathetic excuse of an angel. A poor principality with a penchant for horrible misdeeds. The sad part was...Crowley was right. He’d most likely discorporate himself trying to put the city back together. Without the divine force gifted to angels like Gabriel or Michael, Aziraphale could do little but spit at the fire and hope it fizzled out. And he knew deep in his heart that She would not answer his prayers...not after what he did. 

“No.” Aziraphale clipped. “No, I’ll be staying here. I’ll be safe, if not at my home than at St. Paul’s. It’s stone…” Crowley stared at him, his face still set in silent concern. “Oh don’t look at me like that. You’re in danger here. You can’t hide out in the church with me--”

“I’m a demon, fire isn’t my concern.” Crowley said nonchalantly. 

“So it’s sin, is it?” Aziraphale said. “What is it this time? Looting?” The two stared across the road into the window of a clock shop, watching impatiently as the seconds ticked on. This felt like an eternity. Crowley opened his mouth, armed with a clever response, when a small voice interrupted them. 

“Mama?”

Aziraphale’s heart stopped in his chest. The two turned towards the row of abandoned buildings, their eyes spotting a small child. He was no older than six, cheeks already streaked with tears as he stood numbly in front of his home. His hands gripped the leather straps of a large, heavy looking brocade bag, one with a design that Aziraphale recognized as belonging to the woman who sped off in her carriage.

“ _Oh, my dear child._ ”

“No.” Crowley bit off. “Don’t tell me they left their son.” 

Upon hearing that the child began to wail, hands leaving the bag to wipe away fat, blubbering tears from his eyes. Aziraphale felt paralyzed, unable to move as he watched the child take in lungful after lungful of bad air, his sobs turning into hacking coughs as he screamed for his mother. How on earth could this happen? All those bags, all those trunks jammed into the carriage along with the kids and yet the smallest one left behind. The lumpy, overstuffed bag at his feet turned Aziraphale’s stomach. The poor child was probably trying to grab his own precious possessions, following the example of his mother and older siblings. He just hadn’t been fast enough. 

“Aziraphale, _do something!”_ Crowley hissed, watching as the child coughed and wheezed. “Grab the kid and get out of here, already.” 

Aziraphale wanted to. He knew he should. Heaven above, he wished his feet moved so swiftly that he would be resting the child in the soft grass of the countryside before another breath was taken. He just...couldn’t. It was as though he could not leave the city...not yet. 

“Oh, for---” Crowley swore. He dove forward, scooping up the child in one swift motion so that his tiny face was buried in the crook of Crowley’s neck. Aziraphale felt shame drop into the pit of his stomach as Crowley kicked the bag away with disdain. 

“All we do for them and they leave their kid.” Crowley mumbled, “I’d put a pox on their house if it weren’t for the fact that I’m returning this one.” Aziraphale coughed into his handkerchief, the smoke conveniently hiding his shameful tears. Crowley turned to him, cradling the child against him to block the smoke.

“Get out of here, Aziraphale. It moves quicker than you’d expect.” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Aziraphale lowered his handkerchief, offering a meek smile. 

“Isn’t that the point, dear boy?”

Crowley sighed, for once unable to find the last word. Instead he turned on his heel, walking quickly down the road to where it shimmered just beyond the heat, and vanished like a mirage. Then it was just Aziraphale. 

At some point Aziraphale snapped out of his daze, yet wasn’t able to recall the events that followed shortly after Crowley had departed. The blaze had ravaged the city all of Monday, and Aziraphale had thought it wise to try and minimize the damage done by the fire. St. Paul’s Cathedral has been the obvious choice for refuge, with its thick stone walls and large empty plaza. On foot, Aziraphale accompanied the local booksellers and printmakers, hoarding their precious cargo within the crypt of the church. They worked through the night, packing every nook and cranny with maps, books, journals, and printing equipment. While authorities outside worked on creating firebreaks, Aziraphale ushered people inside, their arms laden with more goods than they could carry. It all went into the crypt, until each book was like a little soldier--shoulder to shoulder--an army of man’s finest accomplishments. But fire is a divine force. Unattended, it gained a life of its own; and for the first time in millennia Aziraphale felt as though he was being spoken to by God through its destruction. 

The scaffolding caught fire. 

Yes, the wood scaffolding of St.Paul’s, put up for restoration, caught a wayward ember on the wind that Tuesday night. It crept around the stone structure like a serpent, holding the cathedral in a choke hold of smoke thick smoke. Within St. Paul’s Aziraphale was on his knees, praying diligently beside the clergymen and worshippers who took sanctuary there. Eyes squeezed shut, face in his palms, Aziraphale called upon all he knew. _Save this city. Save these people_. Yet with each passing second the air grew stifling, as though stuck under a smothering blanket of heat. Beside him people wilted, the heat becoming too much as the flames grew with intensity.

“Mr. Fell” a man said, resting a sweat soaked hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “We cannot stay, we’ll burn alive…” Aziraphale broke from his prayer, eyes scanning the church to see people heading hastily for the doors before the flames cut them off. “Please, sir, you need to leave immediately.” The man drew back his hand to wipe the sweat from his eyes, prompting Aziraphale to recognize the uncomfortable stickiness of sweat that soaked the silk of his own attire. He nodded wordlessly, rising from his knees as the man made a mad dash for the door just as the wooden timbers of St.Paul went up in flames. 

Aziraphale didn’t know why he dawdled. Part of him would later say that as an angel it was his duty to make sure every soul had left the church before it crumbled to ruin, like a captain going down with his ship, but that wasn’t entirely correct. Part of him wanted to burn. To be absolved of the crimes he had waited so many years for. He felt it happening, his body becoming hotter and harder to move. His lungs screamed for air as the smoke thickened, and his eyes watered uncontrollably. By this point the inside of St.Pauls was so hot that no human could withstand it. No heavenly issued body could remain there longer than a few minutes without breaking down. As Aziraphale stood there, eyes fixed to the flames licking the ceiling, he counted down the seconds until he would be spirited away. Back in Heaven, where he would confess, and finally…rightfully...fall. _Yes, fall._ He waited, and waited...and then he ran. 

It was a mad, undignified scramble for the door. Slicked with sweat, Aziraphale nearly tumbled as his feet slid within his shoes. The whole world blurred, split, and rejoined as smoke-induced tears stung his eyes. No amount of blinking could clear the smeared mess of red and gold that shimmered just beyond the smoke, and Aziraphale wondered if the doors had been engulfed yet. By some miracle (or curse, perhaps) they had not. Aziraphale kicked the doors open, letting in a rush of cool air that turned the space behind him into a swirling inferno. He skittered down the steps, feeling as though both Heaven and Hell were on his heels as the door blew back shut, and the fire took its spoils. 

With a deafening crack, the roof of St.Paul’s split, sending stones shooting into the night like cannonballs. Shrieks rose above the roar of the flames, and for the first time Aziraphale noticed fast moving rivers racing down the steps of the cathedral. Lead, superheated by the flames, had melted, running red and molten hot through the streets of London. The lead ran fast, winding and weaving through streets, lighting it up a ghastly red as though the world was ready to split at the seams and swallow London whole. It was Hell on Earth. 

Aziraphale was swept into the current of bodies heading for the outer walls of the city. The instinct to flee clouded his senses, every move reduced down to “right” or “left”, breaking him further and further from the main crowd as he raced down crooked streets, until he ran alone. Turning a tight corner, Aziraphale found himself running headlong into a dead end street. The street was narrow, and thick with smoke as every craggy building was wrapped in flames. Making a quick aboutface, Aziraphale tried to retreat, but was stopped by the sudden crack of wood, watching in horror as a small shop buckled and collapsed into the street, cutting off his only means of escape. 

“Oh God….” Aziraphale croaked, though he didn’t expect Her to answer. A heavy curtain of heat was drawn around Aziraphale as the flames circled closer, and for a moment...he almost felt like laughing. Burning on his terms, in the church, when he had strayed so far? No, She wouldn’t allow that. Aziraphale used the last of his bravery when he handed off his sword to Adam. Now there was only cowardice. His last moments within the holy walls of a cathedral were spent fleeing...casting himself out of Her light and into the flames he rightfully belonged to. He would be a laughing stock in Heaven. A fallen angel who didn’t even have the courage to look God in the eyes as he did it. Would he even have the courage to watch as he fell? 

The flames drew near, breathing hot and heavy onto Aziraphale’s trembling form. His clothes were nothing more than sweat soaked rags, tattered from running and caked with soot. The tears that rolled from his eyes dried before they reached his chin. No human could breathe here, and soon no angel as well. Only demons. Aziraphale wondered how that first breath would feel. He wondered if it was something Crowley remembered well. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes, and inhaled. 

The next sensation was hard to describe.

The orange glow that seared behind Aziraphale’s eyelids grew black, as though someone drew a cloak across his face. He heard the rustle of feathers—almost like wings— and felt them kick up hot air around him. Two hands found his body, making brief contact on his shoulder and waist. They worked in tandem, sharply turning Aziraphale clockwise like a top, spinning him into a space Aziraphale could not pinpoint. It was not Heaven, nor Hell. It was not Earth. It was a space between, where the streets of London fell from beneath his feet and dissolved into nothing. The sounds rushed away, as though sucked into a far horizon. New sounds barreled towards him. Wind. Air. Trees. They hurtled at him so suddenly that the whole ordeal lasted under a second. A mere heartbeat . And it was done. 

Aziraphale inhaled fresh air.

Opening his eyes, Aziraphale’s eyes landed on a dark rolling countryside. The light of the moon was rivaled only by the orange glow of London alight, which now sat at a considerable distance. 

From here, London looked like a campfire, making Aziraphale acutely aware of the stiff autumn breeze, and the wet grass he was sitting in. A voice broke the silence. 

“Is that your idea of doing what I wouldn’t do?” 

Aziraphale turned, almost surprised to see Crowley sitting beside him in the grass. Crowley’s gaze was fixed on the horizon, which flickered like fireflies in his dark lenses. Aziraphale felt a stone of shame drop into his stomach. 

“I thought…” Aziraphale said, his voice so soft he could barely hear it, “...I thought the books would be safe.” 

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

The two watched quietly as the fire took London, basking in its glow as though it were the only flame on earth. The world unfolded before them, spilling new uncertainties into Aziraphale’s lap.

“What am I supposed to do? I can’t show my face around here again.” He choked. Crowley grunted, lifting himself to his feet.

“You’ll know once the fire goes out.” He replied. Aziraphale turned, an unwelcome message of gratitude already on the tip of his tongue.

“Crowley, I—“

But Crowley had vanished, unwilling to save and angel and receive thanks in the same day. For the best, Aziraphale supposed. Though it now felt so much colder.

* * *

_A.Z. Fell & Co. Present day _

Crowley had been right that evening; Aziraphale knew what to do. Though the shame of losing countless books ate him up inside, Aziraphale returned to London following the end of the blaze. He helped pick up the pieces, and right the wrongs he had committed—but on his terms. Blasphemous as it may seem, Aziraphale realized that he could not rely on holy spaces to protect the achievements of the human mind. Their eternal spirits belonged to God, but their terrestrial accomplishments belonged to all. They were much safer under his direct care, in a space he could fiercely protect. Over the next century, Aziraphale began to acquire his own collection, and in the century following, he put a name to it: _A.Z. Fell & Co. _

Though the bookshop was a point of pride, it’s shameful origins always managed to surface on days like this. And as Aziraphale stared at the neglected shelf, his face set in a pout at the sight of the words ‘ _DUST ME’_ scrawled into the wood, he realized that the sting would never go away. 

The old grandfather clock tucked into the corner chimed twice, breaking Aziraphale from his reverie. Time, it seemed, would not budge today. Aziraphale produced a handkerchief from his pocket with a sigh, and dusted the shelf vigorously. Thick dust clumped and fell from it like ash, vanishing into thin air before hitting the floor. Perhaps a little housekeeping would occupy his mind. The whole shop was a perpetual dust magnet, and there were some hinges that needed greasing or windows that needed a good washing. And yes, of course, it could all be miracled away, but there was something wonderful in the methodical action of cleaning. It took time, and care, and a little elbow grease. Aziraphale was awfully proud of keeping the old shop up by hand, even if the odd nail snagged his favorite vest from time to time. 

By the time Aziraphale had oiled the hinges and wiped down the windows it was a quarter to three, and the ache in his back gently encouraged him into the soft armchair he usually occupied. Beside the armchair was a stack of books, which Aziraphale rotated through at whim. A little bit of everything to occupy his mind when his heart was not fully committed. Sandwiched between two books on maritime history was a weathered collection of short stories, the perfect thing to keep his mind occupied. He flipped it to the middle, picking up about seven stories in, when the shop buzzed and flickered. Glancing up, Aziraphale found the source of the problem; a lightbulb getting ready to burn out. 

“ _Oh, for…_ ” Aziraphale swore to himself. 

Once more, Aziraphale was out of the chair and heading towards the small utility closet tucked into the corner of the shop. A faulty bulb could be miracled away, but in light of recent scrutiny Aziraphale had taken to keeping a stash somewhere in the small, yet endless, cupboard. Aziraphale pushed aside a pair of candelabras, an old oil lamp, and an emergency box of matches long enough to light his stove before the little white box came into view. There was little room to maneuver, and Aziraphale found himself shoulder deep in the closet, his arm groping for the little white box that was just a hair out of reach. 

“This used to be easier.” he grumbled, once again taken back through his memories as the bulb over his reading chair went dark. 

* * *

_London, 1816_

“Marvelous, isn’t it?” Aziraphale breathed, looking up from under the brim of his hat at the street lamp being lit. “No need for whale oil. It just comes to life and burns the whole night through.” His companion approached, stepping from the shadows and into the warm circle of light that Aziraphale basked in. 

“Ingenious, really. Though it makes my job a little harder. All these lit streets...less room for debauchery.” he said, squinting up at the lamp through his shades. “Gas...interesting choice.” 

Aziraphale’s face scrunched with confusion.

“How so?”

“Volatile.” Crowley clipped. “Last I heard of these lamps they exploded. Something about wood casing and combustibility.” Aziraphale fidgeted with the front of his waistcoat, fingering the smooth watch chain that dangled there. A steady flame flickered within the glass and metal frame of the lamp, but Aziraphale couldn’t help but smell the phantom scent of London burning. It never fully left his nose. 

“Well, not these. Clearly.” he said hurriedly. “I’m certain metal is a better choice.” 

Crowley tipped his hat, acknowledging Aziraphale’s point with a smile.

“Obviously.” he said gently, a hand reaching to lightly tap Aziraphale’s elbow. “Fancy a walk?”

“A walk, yes. Splendid.”

It wasn’t as though Aziraphale and Crowley had never taken a walk before. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Since the opening of the bookshop, Crowley had made a point of hovering around London more often. Aziraphale didn’t quite understand why London had become such a fixed point in Hell’s plans for eternal damnation, but he did enjoy a familiar face. Staying put in one place presented a new set of challenges Aziraphale wasn’t quite ready for, so the occasional lunch or parkside stroll did a lot to break up the monotony. Yet tonight the air felt different as the two walked side by side. They walked with their heads tilted towards the sky, watching as it turned from dusty purple to inky black, taking everything but the light of the lamps with them. Soon all that was left were the lamps, standing stark against the heavens like manmade stars, perfectly measured and full of light. 

“Do you ever worry about them?” Crowley asked, his tone a little heartbroken. “Do you ever wish they would take a moment before trying to catch up to us?” Crowley’s pace slowed to a crawl, and Aziraphale skidded to a stop. In the warm light of the lamps, Crowley looked quite different. Soft and tender, but apprehensive. Aziraphale sighed. 

“I suppose it’s all Her plan. Her...influence that guides the hands of inventors and great thinkers. They move at Her pace.” 

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Crowley said solemnly. He pulled at the leather gloves on his fingers, something that struck Aziraphale as a nervous tick he never displayed before. “Do they move like this under Her influence, or do they move this quickly because we gifted them Her...influence.” It clicked in Aziraphale’s mind. 

“Ah. Her influence...Her mind. This is about the garden.”

“‘Course it is, what else would it be.” Crowley snipped.He didn’t mean it, of course. That Aziraphale knew well. He remained silent while Crowley gathered himself and took a breath.

“I just can’t help but shake the feeling this was broken before it began.” The thought sat there between them, lingering enough for Aziraphale to feel the full weight of his time on earth. Every misstep they made became breadcrumbs, and all of humankind followed hungrily at their heels. 

“I think…” Aziraphale began. “I think the world deserves a little more credit than that.” Crowley glanced over, eyebrow raised.

“You do?”

“Well, yes!” Aziraphale blustered. “So the humans are catching up rather quickly. Why shouldn’t they? They’re in Her image, shouldn’t we expect them to...to…” This was a lot harder to spin than he thought. 

“To be little raging tyrants with god complexes like dearest mother?” 

Aziraphale looked at the flickering flame within the lantern, unable to meet Crowley’s gaze. “That’s your way of phrasing it. I say they’re excelling.” 

Silence settled in again as the two gazed up at the lamp. The light danced off Crowley’s tinted glasses, mirroring flames they had seen countless times over. Always together; which in its own way was bittersweet. For all the lunches and walks they’ve enjoyed, there was an equal amount of fear and terror. And this new innovation...this gas lamp...marked a new age Aziraphale didn’t feel ready for. But then again, neither did Crowley. Aziraphale cleared his throat, his hands fidgeting once more with the pocket watch at his side.

“Crowley, it’s gotten rather nippy out—-“

“That’s alright, Aziraphale. We can meet again soon.” Crowley’s gaze was fixed on the flame, voice soft and almost hurt. Aziraphale felt a pang of sadness in his chest, but summoned a bit of courage.

“And leave you out here in the cold? I won’t have it. I’ve got a lovely tea blend I’ve been waiting to try back at the shop if you’re interested.” 

Crowley turned his head, his glasses losing their hellish spark as the light was replaced by another. It was a bit unnerving, Aziraphale thought, to see himself reflected in the dark glass. One lonely angel, dressed to the nines, trying desperately to keep himself together, reflected in the sights of a demon who refused to leave him be. One angel, basking in the light of a gas lamp, glowing back at him through Crowley’s glasses. It only took a moment, but Aziraphale felt his breath catch in his throat as Crowley looked him over. A small smile tugged at the corner of his thin lips.

“I’d be delighted.”

* * *

_A.Z Fell & Co., Present Day _

The rest of that evening had been a blur. A pot of tea turned into a snifter of brandy, which turned into a bottle of wine that Aziraphale had tucked away in the closet he now used to store lightbulbs. Since then, the gas lamps had turned electric, but Aziraphale hardly noticed. His shop was outfitted with updated lighting fixtures as needed to avoid suspicion; though he refused to switch over from incandescent to fluorescent or LED bulbs. The light was too gharrish and cold. Not warm and inviting, like his cozy shop. 

With the light fixed, Aziraphale settled in to read. For the first time that day, things went rather smoothly. He thumbed through one short story, caring little about the plot as it echoed countless stories he had read before. The second story held his attention, and Aziraphale found himself invested in the plot of a young man out to romance the woman of his dreams. It was predictable, yes, but the type of predictable Aziraphale made a home out of. Soft, all enveloping warmth and predictability. You knew what would happen when you turned the page, but you turned it anyway. And, predictably, a bit of wine was desired as the scene turned steamy. 

Breaking away from his book, Aziraphale moved to the wine rack in search of a bottle. By this point, the clock in the corner read a quarter past four; remarkably good for a day that had crawled by. If Crowley’s estimate was correct, he was already speeding back to London. In an hour or so they’d be crammed in a tight little eatery, basking in the steam rising from a great big bowl of pho. All these memories would be locked up in the shop, and for a few short hours he could rest knowing they were safe with his books. Out of sight and out of mind.

But until the sleek black Bentley pulled up in front of his shop, Aziraphale was hostage to the past. It leapt out at him from every corner. The antique tea cup he had purchased when it was fresh and unused in 1780. A chess set far too old to play without miraculous insurance. A chest full of clothes; beautifully preserved since he last wore them 500-1200 years ago. Paintings that were hung high above bookshelves, and bound copies of sketches by artists lost to time. Friends of Aziraphale who no longer graced this earth, but lived on in this shop. Friends who Aziraphale felt sometimes breathed life into this shop on the days he could barely catch his breath. Like just now...as the light glinted off a dusty wine bottle on the counter.

“Oh...silly thing..” Aziraphale whispered. He lifted it up, examining the label carefully. It wasn’t a particularly fine bottle. Not a rare year, or from a prestigious region of France. It wasn’t even particularly old. But as Aziraphale scanned the label he felt a warmth bloom in his chest. It may not be a spectacular bottle, but its origin was breathtaking. 

* * *

_Naples, Italy, 500_

In 79 AD, the earth around the Bay of Naples began to rumble. It groaned and split, revealing what was thought to be a quiet mountain as a raging volcano. The sky turned dark, and rolling clouds of hot ash tumbled down the hillside. A beautiful autumn day became a cacophonous nightmare within a matter of hours. And then all was silent.

Aziraphale had not been in Naples when Vesuvius erupted, but the news spread quickly to Rome. The towns of Pompeii and Herculaneum had been lost, and there was nothing left to save. It was as if God Herself lay a finger on the earth, and smudged it out of existence. 

But that was many years ago.

Aziraphale had thought little about Naples since leaving Rome, his divine duties leading him elsewhere across the globe. He watched empires rise and fall, and powers shift into new ages. The art of the Romans was waning, and Christianity was thriving. It kept Aziraphale busy; all those miracles and blessings were in high demand. It was only by chance that his duties led him down the Italic peninsula, something he had not done since he followed Constantine to his namesake capital. But today he found himself walking along a quaint country road, flanked by the sea and the sweeping slopes of Vesuvius. 

It was a different kind of quiet. Not the deathly silence that followed tragedy, or the hush that befell every traveler to gaze upon the scorched earth. This quiet was comforting and inviting. It let Aziraphale pause for a minute to bask in the afternoon sun, and breathe in sweet fresh air. It reminded him there was no business today. Coaxed him to follow the sun and enjoy the views. It was glorious. 

“Aziraphale?”

The sound of his name almost sent him jumping out of his skin. Turning sharply, Aziraphale’s gaze landed on a familiar figure. Crawley—no— _Crowley._ The demon he had a habit of running into. He hadn’t seen much of him since their chance meeting in Rome. After a round of oysters and a jug of wine, the demon vanished. Aziraphale tossed it up to hellish orders. But something about Crowley always drew his mind back. Perhaps that was the point. Crowley _was_ a creature of temptation. It was only logical that he be captivating company. Sparkling personality, sharp wit, and attractive too; even with those new fangled spectacles he used to hide his serpentine eyes. Aziraphale quickly pushed the thought from his mind, lest the demon get any ideas.

“Crowley? What are you doing here?” Aziraphale asked. He felt rather foolish asking, spotting a jug in Crowley’s hand, the mouth of it stained a deep red. 

“Little project of mine.” Crowley mumbled, his speech slightly slurred from drink. “Care to indulge?” He shook the jug playfully, sending its contents sloshing about. Aziraphale wrinkled his nose.

“I don’t know what impression you have of me, but I’m not easily tempted.” 

Crowley pulled a face akin to _no, really, lie better._

“I’m not _tempting_ you, Angel, I know my place. I’m inviting you. You look run ragged, why not have a drink? My treat?” He said, taking a short swig from the jug. “Call it even for the oysters.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, mulling over the idea carefully. 

“I suppose…” he started, eyes glancing toward the sky. “...that it is in my nature to promote the spirit of giving…” he looked to Crowley “...no matter their walk of life.” 

“Attaboy, come now.” Crowley said, walking off the road and down a narrow path. Aziraphale followed, his heart racing as he let himself be guided off the path and into the unknown. It occurred to Aziraphale that this might be a trap. A way for God to test his loyalty and cast him out. But Aziraphale did not stray from the path Crowley made, nor did he turn back. He was offered kindness, and he truly believed Crowley would give it. After a few minutes of frantic worrying, Crowley stopped short.

“Here it is, angel.” 

Aziraphale’s feet slowed and shuffled in the dirt.

“It’s…beautiful.”

It was a vineyard. Wonderfully cultivated, lining the slopes of the mountain in neat little rows. Green twisted vines with full waving leaves, and heavy with grapes. Roots that slithered down into rich black soil. What was once barren scorched earth now teemed with life. It breathed, it swayed, it trembled with every sea breeze. Aziraphale could barely believe it. 

“Nice, isn’t it? I got to work on it a little after we met in Rome. That jug of house brown was—-“ Crowley shuddered his response.

Aziraphale looked on in confusion. “We met before the eruption. In 41…”

Crowley hummed, his amber eyes scanning the rolling vineyard.

“Yes. I didn’t start right away. This place needed time to heal, with the eruption and all that.” He said, his voice dropping low. “Scorched things need time to heal.” He breathed deep, as though pushing down a dark, painful memory. “ _But,_ once it did, it was ready to live again. And I had just the seeds to plant.” Crowley tapped at a pouch slung low on his hip. “I saved a few for myself...if you catch my drift.”

“You _didn’t.”_ Aziraphale hissed. Of course Crowley would be sauntering around with a piece of Eden in his front pocket. Yet, somehow Aziraphale knew that’s where it was safest.

“Had to swipe something on my way out.” Crowley shrugged. “What kind of demon would I be if I didn’t” There was a pause, and Aziraphale felt compelled to speak.

“Well then, pass me the jug.” He said, almost boldly. “I’d like to sample your handiwork.” Crowley smiled, and handed the clay jug off to Aziraphale. It was mostly full, and the sweet scent of wine filled Aziraphale’s nose. He lifted it to his lips, half expecting to be struck down the moment the wine passed over his tongue, but there was nothing to fear. The wine was full bodied and flavorful. A truly beautiful young vintage created from the aftermath of destruction. New life. 

“Drink up, Angel.” Crowley said fondly. “The locals have come to call it Lacryma Christi.” Aziraphale lowered the jug, wiping his lips gently with the back of his hand.

“Tears of Christ?”

“Like I said...this place needed to heal.” 

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, examining him carefully. The demon looked slightly broken, his normally straight posture a little bent forward. His amber eyes fixed on a memory in middle distance, and Aziraphale had a feeling he knew which one. Crowley never mentioned kingdoms of the world he offered Christ, but he had a feeling this might have been one of them. And in its place, a new Eden, forged from scorched earth and rejected beings. A second beginning made fertile by fire. 

“It’s quite lovely, Crowley.” Aziraphale said, passing the jug back to the demon. “Truly.” 

Though their conversation stopped, the vineyard was never quiet again. 

* * *

_A.Z Fell & Co., Present Day _

Aziraphale was just about to pierce the foil of his wine bottle when a familiar chime rang out through the shop. It stopped him in his tracks, giving pause as he waited for the familiar _‘Hello?’_ of a customer. 

“Aziraphale!” a voice rang out. “Where’ve you gone off to?”

Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat, sending him skittering out from the back room to meet his companion. Crowley swaggered in from the doorway, hands jammed in his pockets as he stepped into the rotunda of the bookshop.

“Aziraphale? I know I’m early—“

“Not to worry!” Aziraphale called, quickly stepping out to greet Crowley. “I’ve been ready for hours. Not a single visitor today, I’ve been horribly bored.” Crowley flashed a crooked smile, glancing around the bookshop dramatically.

“All these books and _you’re bored?”_ He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “They’d roll in their graves.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

“ _Please._ Are you ready for dinner?” Aziraphale asked, eager to get out the door and out of this shop. Crowley looked at Aziraphale skeptically, his wavy locks swishing over his shoulder in a way that made Aziraphale rather giddy. 

“If you are. Though you seem rather anxious to leave. Everything alright, Angel?”

Aziraphale tugged down on his worn velvet waistcoat. “Perfectly. If you’d been cooped up in here all day you’d be eager to leave too. Come on, now. I’ve been dying to try out this restaurant.”

Crowley turned on his heel and sauntered out the door, snapping his fingers to start the ignition on the Bentley. 

“Car’s ready, Angel. Lock up?”

“Yes, yes.” Aziraphale glanced, noticing something square drop from Crowley’s pocket. He swooped down gracefully to pick it up. “Oh, dear, Crowley you’ve dropped your…” Aziraphale glanced at the paper. “...exterminator’s license. Rataway?” Crowley turned around quickly, plucking the license from Aziraphale’s hand.

“Whoopsie. A little mischief I have in store for next week.” He cheekily tapped the side of his nose. “None the wiser.” Aziraphale sighed, following Crowley as he slipped out of the shop. Just a little mischief, same as it had been for millennia. But as Aziraphale closed the door on A.Z Fell & Co., he felt the sensation of weight being transferred from his palm, and the scent of smoke filled his nose. He wondered, once more, of all of this would end one day.

In fire. 

**Author's Note:**

> This bang was done in collaboration with artist @tayasigerson on tumblr. Please go look at their awesome art! Below are the links to some of the lovely pieces they've made for Modest Prometheus.
> 
> [Banner](https://i.imgur.com/4BloxZa.png)  
> [Victoria Sponge](https://i.imgur.com/kGQT3c3.png)  
> [Great Fire](https://i.imgur.com/8ZvD4tt.png)
> 
> You can find me on tumblr @grumblebee-trilogy.


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